Originally published in KSX # 1, c. 1987

I first saw him in the steam and heat of my #3 Factory. He was just one among many others, lost in the dull orange glare of the metal engines, a dark, antlike figure against the slowly strobing machine light.

I'd been away for a month, travelling. Still, I knew I'd never seen him before. I would never have forgotten one such as he.

Determined to make a thorough inspection of all my properties, I'd systematically toured through my first two factories, barely hearing the obsequious chorus of, 'Best Day, Master Stefhan', 'May we serve, Master Stefhan?' that followed me wherever I went. I noted any discrepancies and inefficiencies, and made future plans. I have always been most methodical; it saves the mind from imaginations.

There was a minor problem with the coal-shuttle equipment; some necessary repairs were needed. I suspected that Del, my chief foreman here, had pocketed some of the maintenance money, and was on the lookout for proof.

To that end, I gave the metal-passer a close inspection as well. But when I saw him, I quite forgot my goal.

He was one of the four-man metal-passer team. I'd scarcely given any of the rest a glance, but when my gaze passed him by, I glanced back, riveted. A slight surge of dizziness hit me. Compelled, I stared for a moment.

There he was, respectfully at attention with the rest of them, dressed in the nondescript grey Worker's coveralls, with a smudge of soot on his forehead. Beads of sweat had risen on his fine skin in the heat, and his golden hair was plastered down to his head.

He looked like a water spirit, seductive and sinful. Yet there was nothing in his eyes that was not in those of the rest; he mimicked their deferential stance completely. Why did I have an instantaneous intuition that it was all some sham; that he was an artful actor trying on a new role, confident in his performance?

I continued my tour. Experienced in acting myself, I played the martinet, the stern authoritarian figure that was my outer skin. My father, an expert in the same role, had done his training well. I continued the inspection, pausing in all the right places, saying all the right things. My soul, however, was gripped by a pair of hazel eyes.

I asked Del about him. My foreman replied that he'd been working for me for over a month now. An urge struck me; I couldn't explain it. I asked to see his work papers.

There was something a little odd about Del's manner when I asked this, and a hint of suspicion entered my mind. By long-cultivated instinct, I kept my face carefully blank as I went with the burly man up three floors to where his harshly utilitarian office overlooked the huge open work area. It was periodically lit by flares of light from the molten metals below, and even his small inefficient cooling unit couldn't touch the sizzling heat in the air.

Silently, Del gave me this one's papers. I looked them over carefully, keeping my face hard, my eyes narrowed. No softness, ever. I could not betray myself in any way to this man, vulture that he was. Not in the same class, of course, but the same type as all my business associates. One slip, to anyone, and they would be on me like a rat pack, ravenous to snap my reputation and take my position, my possessions, my wealth.

The forgery was obvious. Not crudely done, but as part of my civic duties, I held Court Chamber several times a month. Most of the cases I ruled were on the Illegals. I'd seen hundreds of forged papers. These were good. Not good enough.

Del had real fear in his eyes, which he took care to mask when I looked up. I wondered what his game was, and decided to go thoroughly through his files. Perhaps he was taking bribes in his hirings; something I could not afford in my position. To have Illegals working for me would be far too scandalous to weather.

It was almost amusing. Something like illegal hirings would be forgotten instantly if other things about myself ever became known. And yet, I was impelled to take chances...

Don't think about it. Every time those secret thoughts seized my mind, I felt somehow as if my flesh too, were stained, and proclaimed loudly to the world what I was.

Fantasy, I fiercely told myself. If anyone knew, I wouldn't be here now. Always, there was anonymity; face masks enhancing the nudity. No one knew.

But my flesh was hard right now, thinking about that man, that Kirk.

Del's eyes lit up, full of craft and deceit. What mirrors they were! That is why, of course, he will never advance to a higher position. He can't conceal enough. He thought, perhaps, that I did not suspect him; or that I would forgive him being an unwitting dupe of a clever deceiver. He should know better. But one can't explain hope.

I asked Del to tell me about him--everything he knew.

He gave me all the information he had, using 'sir', and 'Honored Stefhan' many times in his speech. This Jim Kirk had shown up a month before, he explained. He and a friend.

I asked about the friend. Curiosity ate at me, stirring, disturbing my flesh. I kept myself absolutely still, revealing nothing. I was simply, I explained to myself, following my duty. If there were infiltrators, spies at my Factory, or even simple Illegals, they must be eliminated.

They were both quiet types, Del explained. Spock more so than Kirk. Spock was an odd one. Never seemed to mind the heat. Very strong. Insisted on wearing caps indoors, when everyone else bundled up their greatcoats, mufflers, gloves and boots at the door. Both hard workers. Very efficient. Kirk mingled easily with the others. As easy as could be expected. Spock held back almost completely.

I asked for Spock's papers, too, and gave them a cursory glance. Also forgeries.

I handed them back to Del. Very good, I said. I let myself out, but I carried the look in Del's eyes with me. Surprise. Cunning. I knew what he was thinking. I was either a fool, to have missed the forgery. Or I recognized it as such, and had some other plot in mind.

Doubtless, Del would spend sleepless nights, waiting for the knock on the door. Perhaps I would turn him in. His enmity was growing into more than potential. He would harm me, if he could.

But if I did, it had better be soon, and the evidence overwhelmingly against him. He could be an excellent scapegoat. Even if this was all some simple bribery plot, and he lining his pockets with bribes and my maintenance money, I would be culpable if this came out in some other way.

I paused at the iron railing outside the lofty office. The scream of worked metal rang and clamored, the fires and super-heated steam hissed and sizzled. Rebounding from the confining walls, the cacophony echoed in my ears.

Yes, I thought It would be difficult, scandalous, but handled right I could emerge clean.

I could see the one, Kirk, from my vantage point. At this distance he appeared small and insignificant. He had no place in my mind. Yet his hair was like a torch, a wanton beacon, inviting me to touch.

My hands clenched themselves into fists behind me. I reminded myself of my position, symbolized by the clothes that I wore, the dark and harsh cloth which held me prisoner, upright and inflexible, a symbol of power. A symbol riding on vulnerability. I was Master. But I could fall.

I walked down the stairs, with the military precision I'd learned as a boy, each movement confident, assured, mechanical. I took a leisurely tour on my way out, pausing many times, asking many questions. The workers were all properly respectful. I lingered with many. I lingered longest with Kirk.

He was different. There was no doubt of his difference. All the others had traces of fear in their eyes. They knew my whim could leave them starving in the snow. But there was no fear in him. Respect, yes. A natural respect, to accord another until one knew better.

But no fear. That alone made him unique.

I looked up suddenly, and found myself transfixed by a pair of piercing dark eyes.

I knew, without question, this must be his friend, called Spock. The strangeness was immediately apparent. The pallor of his skin, the way the dark hair fell, unruled, to his brows, and the way he wore his cap, covering nearly his entire head. Such individualism in dress was discouraged. Nothing he wore was--quite--against dress regulations, and yet the combined effect was jarringly out of place. Workers were not eager to stand out.

This one did, and I sensed also he did not care. The power in his eyes was one which brooked no master.

That, apparent, in just one glance, before he lowered his gaze in a practiced, respectful motion.

I broke away from Kirk and walked unhurriedly to the exit. But burning inside me, Kirk's eyes, and the unselfconscious smile he'd given to one of my comments. Beautiful. And that darker gaze of his friend--protective, warning, then suddenly blanked of all expression, as subservient as any other man there.

Outside, grey skies reflected the leaden ground. A path through the snow had been cleared on the main route, and when I reached it, my own walkway had been swept clean. The snow piled beside me was higher than my head. But I barely felt the cold, so strong was the heat within me.

As I entered my residence, welcomed by the warmth and the carefully polite faces of my servants, I felt shivers threaten to destroy my composure. Something had cracked inside me, cracked a little bit more. The pattern had already been marred. I knew that, had recognized it, even indulged it in furtive, guilt-ridden trips to the lawless center of town, where other nameless, faceless men engaged in forbidden practices.

It burned in me, burned the night through, and when morning came I was obsessed with the thought of having him.

* * * * *

I took to spending more time in my office at Factory #3. I was careful, of course, to spend some time at the other three buildings, as well. Productivity improved. I was as diligent as any of my underlings. I made many tours of inspection. Del, doubtless, thought I was gathering evidence against him, and he was right. I had not forgotten my plan to use him as a scapegoat. Frequent evidence of corruption among underlings helps keep the Masters in place. It discourages the real plotters.

Probably others found my new diligence remarkable, but of course none made any comments. There were the usual rumors of upcoming Inspections--quite true, I knew, having inside information from friends at Chamber--and it was during these times that anyone, from the most exalted, to the lowest in status, need fear great and sweeping changes.

But even with the knowledge of upcoming Inspections, I felt curiously uncaring. Whether or not I met Quotas; whether or not I met Approval, always the center of my life in the past, seemed nothing. Those concerns burned away--drifting ash from the fire that consumed me.

I watched the two of them very carefully. My tours of the Factory floor were frequent, and always included the metal-passer section. Kirk and Spock were good workers: fast, quick, and efficient. Because of this, it was easy to make plans.

I quickly found a means of promoting Kirk into a position where it would be easy to have close daily contact with him. My office, unlike Del's, was actually sealed away from the rest of the building, and even in the worst heat or cold was quite comfortable to occupy. I made him my office assistant. He was a remarkable worker. He handled any task I set him with ease and aplomb, accomplishing the most difficult request quickly and efficiently. I was pleased with this. There could be no suspicion attached to promoting such an efficient worker. There would have been talk of the worst sort if he'd been an obvious incompetent.

There was still gossip. But it was the sort that always attaches itself to capable men.

He was always unfailingly polite to me, and unflinching in every contact. He exuded an incredible air of self-confidence which shone out even from his respectfully lowered eyes, his courteous, never obsequious phrases. To have him nearby was torture, but I could no longer endure life without the illicit delight of his presence.

I spent less and less time with my family-arranged wife and children than before. I made more midnight trips into the heart of town, yet the driving hunger which urged me on was never satisfied, never appeased. There was only fleeting relief, a momentary ease of tension that surged back, fullblown, minutes after each sordid, secretive encounter.

I watched him closely, constantly. But I was cautious, very cautious, not to be so observed myself. I could not afford the vaguest breath of scandal. Only last year, one even higher than I had disappeared from sight after just such an accusation. To seek a mistress would have been any man's ruin. To seek to cleave to another man--unthinkable.


And yet I thought the unthinkable. I did the unspeakable on my increasing forays into town. Before Kirk, I had spent the days following each such expedition consumed in guilt and terror that somewhere, someone knew my dreadful secret, and was biding his time, seeking the best advantage. Blackmail. Or revelation, so the accuser could stand to gain power and position.

Now I was filled with recklessness. Like pent-up waters behind a groaning dam, my desires demanded their natural place in the world.

Each day it became harder and harder not to reach out, to accidentally touch. His worker's clothing could not disguise the sweet lines of his body. The beauty of his expressive face was there for all to see. But I dared not make approaches.

Once, he commented that his friend Spock also had many valuable skills, and could be of more benefit to me than a simple metal worker. He could not know I had separated them deliberately, aching with anger at the possessiveness and protectiveness in Spock's dark eyes, that hint of hovering power. He could not know the force of my jealousy at the casual, undisguised affection in his voice and eyes whenever he spoke about his friend. No, Spock would not be promoted. Let him spend his days in the hellish heart of my factory. I dreamed of industrial accidents and other impossibilities.

I thought for awhile that being near him would cure me of my obsession. But it only intensified, its sharp fangs piercing my heart and soul. It was hard to sleep. Dreams tormented me, and I woke in bed, sheets soaked with sweat and other emissions. Lust consumed me night and day. I was sick with it.

In a torment of frustration, I dared more. Terrified of my own temerity, I brushed past him, briefly cupping my hand against the curve of his buttocks. A jolt of purest pleasure surged through me at the feel of the hard muscular flesh.

He moved away easily, then turned to face me. Ice transfixed my heart. This day, or the next, and I would be reported, then deported, exiled, forgotten. The look in his eyes told me he had not misunderstood.

I could, of course, report him. Do it now, this day, before he has the chance to say anything. I would be believed. He would be jailed.

But nothing happened. Fear transformed itself to certainty. He knew. But he wouldn't turn me in.

We continued our work in silence. Outside, all was darkness, and the snow kept sifting down, covering the blacks and rusts with its own pervasive grey.

Two days later, I contrived to have him work late. The factory closed down for the day, and yet I found more work for him. Del departed, shortly after. He had started to give me speculative looks. That reminded me of my plan to use him as a lightning rod for any accumulated suspicions. It was about time for a scapegoat; too many months had gone by without some public entertainment. Why had I forgotten these plans?

But they were unimportant in Kirk's presence. We were alone. Only the guards, outside, provided distant company. They would not intrude.

How shiningly beautiful Kirk was. His golden hair gleamed in the lamplight, begging for my touch. His compact, perfect body beseeched my hand.

He was seated at a desk, bending over his work. I walked behind him, my heart pounding, thudding in my ears. I rested my hands on his shoulders. I sent one lower.

There was an ease about him as he twisted around and away. His eyes met mine, and quietly he shook his head.

I could scarcely breathe. A patina of fear overlaid all my responses, and yet there was no condemnation in his gaze. Only certain rejection.

I told him to leave. He did, quickly and gracefully. My heart was consumed with the most bitter shame.

Walking home that night, as the snow drifted high around me, I made fierce plans. The next day, I would change his position. I would make certain, of course, that his new position entailed no hardships. I would not send my angel back to the inferno of the factory floor. Nor would I give him cause for bitterness or the thought of revenge.

The lights of my home welcomed me out of the vicious cold. My wife was entertaining very proper guests in the front parlor. I joined them, taking part in the puerile conversation, feeling that I defrauded them with my very presence, with the lie that consumed my life.

* * * * *

I followed my plan the next day. I gave explanations to no one; I owed none. Del was still watching me suspiciously; I concentrated on gathering evidence against him. It gave me great pleasure to report him to Chamber the following Tri-day. He made a lot of protests, but he had been condemned out of hand. I felt fierce pleasure in watching him being taken away. It was almost as if part of the ugliness within me was gone.

But it hadn't left; no, that was too much to ask. My personal demon still possessed me, centering itself in itchy fire in my groin. A flame that ate at me, night and day. A week passed, and his absence from my daily life exalted him in my dreams. The glimpses I caught of him were torture. How to pass him in the hallway without betraying my longing? I succeeded somehow. I walked past him as if he meant nothing more than an efficient worker. Nor did he indicate, by any word or gesture, what he knew of my longing for him.

It was something I couldn't help, what I did next. I pulled his file again, studying it obsessively, and memorized the location of his hut in shacktown.

The map was carefully detailed. My office kept excellent records, and those more privileged employees who worked there had ample reason to know shacktown well. It was where they, some of them, no longer dwelt, but where all came from, and possibly could return, due to any loss of favor.

That night I put on my favorite disguise of coarse worker's clothing. I usually wore this to centertown, but this time I went to the workers section. Bundled and scarved against the ever-present cold, my steps took me to the place I had never walked in before, but knew of far too well: the hell where all my workers dwelled, while I lived in luxury on the hill.

The rote phrases brought a touch of amusement to my mind. Of course I knew the Reformist's propaganda. I had sentenced enough of them to exile in Chamber. But the reality was every bit as bad as their inflammatory words had painted.

Mean, bare, shabby shanties, constructed of tarpaper and pressed sawdust, spread in all directions in an ungainly, uncomely sprawl. Smelly smoke rose from makeshift, dangerous chimneys, from fires which consumed anything which burned. It was the heart of winter now, the bitterest within memory, and many of our workers would die. Come spring, though, a new influx from the country would arrive. The factory would not suffer from lack of labor.

Kirk's place was difficult to find in the complex, patternless, filthy warren. The map, which had seemed so clear when first I had perused it in the office, now seemed abstract, totally unrelated to the reality before me. I almost turned back. My hands and face had grown numb, despite the warmth of my coverings, and the waves of charcoal smoke scratched my lungs with their soot.

But I did not turn back. The thought of returning to my safe, warm house, with my safe, cold wife and fearful servants was more than I could bear.

The silence of the muddy streets was counterpointed by the muted sounds inside each shanty--moans, voices, animal sounds. An occasional argument shouted out into the night. My footsteps crunched the caked ice in the streets. My ears rang with it, with the cold and the sudden awful feeling of nakedness. Suppose, despite my disguise, someone recognized me? Many of my workers dwelt here, after all. Though I had met only a few fugitive figures, desperately seeking the warmth of their shacks, I was quite convinced that I would be recognized momentarily. I cursed all my recent inspections, which had put my face well before their eyes. Here, in the heart of their territory, surely I would be discovered and torn to pieces.

The same sort of fears had plagued me on my every trip to centertown, and I had not given in to them. I did not give in to them now.

Light was fading, turning the unfamiliar bulks of the shacks into menacing shadows. I was positive I was lost. But in any case, it was better to go on to my goal than turn back.

I found Kirk's shack finally, and hesitated outside. I had made no decision, other then my determination to find this place; merely followed my compulsion. Now, in this snowy dark reality, I wondered what I should do next.

There was light within. A major gap in the oilcloth curtain allowed my vision.

They were both inside. I had known, of course, that they lived together, but this was not unusual for workers. I watched them, chilled in my soul as well as my body.

The room was firelit, yet distinct. The dark one was in the single bed, covered with an enormous quantity of blankets. Kirk was by him, helping him drink something from a bowl. I could see that the dark one was ill. His long black hair was molded to his skull by sweat. He tried to say something, and was seized by a fit of coughing.

Kirk held him, easing him, settling him back down when the spasm passed. The dark one caught his hand and held it close, and there was an expression of such utter abandoned love on his face that left no room for doubt. I scarcely needed the further evidence when Kirk leaned over and kissed him.

Shaken, I returned home, scarce remembering the long, dark, freezing trip back.

I did not sleep that night.

* * * * *

Next day, I made the opportunity to go on inspection. I had not done this often, since Kirk's promotion, but had kept up the habit occasionally, trying to taper down gradually and naturally, so no one could remark on it and raise any suspicions.

I did not go to the metal-passer's area immediately. Rather, it was last on my trip. Spock was there, as I expected. Any absence was grounds for dismissal; and unemployment was grounds for imprisonment. Men had dropped dead at their stations rather than be absent.

Passing close, I could sense his pallor and weakness, hear the cough he tried to conceal. He felt me watching him, I am sure, because he turned abruptly and caught my gaze with fever-bright eyes. Caught and held it, and turned away again.

I gave my new foreman extra work for Kirk that night, then sent the man off on an errand, directing him to go home immediately after.

Once again, Kirk and I were the only people in the building. I knew the patterns of of the night watch; I had established them myself. We would not be disturbed.

I was filled with excitement and terror as he approached. I felt that I was on the edge of a precipice, debating about the final step. Fall wrong, and there would be no sudden end here, just an eternity of shame and disgrace. But I could no more not take that step than not breathe.

Kirk's face clearly showed suspicion when I came in. Not wariness. I had seen that often enough. There was no place for intimidation in this man.

But bribery, yes, very possibly.

I made my proposition simply enough. I had need of a new grounds servant. He made no allusion to the fact that it was dead winter. He heard me out in silence, his face shuttered and strong, like a closed-up house defensive against invaders.

This servant, I explained, would have superior lodgings to those of the factory workers. Warmth, good food, plenty of firewood. Duties would be light to start with, but I wished to hire someone now, to acquaint himself with my needs for the summer.

I also had need for a new house accountant. His work was exemplary; I knew he had the talent.

Two new positions, requiring two new men. He could start immediately as my accountant. His friend could be my new groundskeeper. Putting concern into my voice, I told him I'd noticed his friend appeared to be in ill health. Such light duties, and warmth and good shelter, would doubtless speed him on his way to recovery.

His eyes had reflected changes at my every word. It was fascinating to watch, but I never allowed myself to lose my train of thought. I said it all, and had done, and asked for his answer.

He asked only one question: what other duties would be required?

I told him. Explicitly. Excited at the sound of my own voice, detailing these things to someone else; the deliberate danger I was placing myself in. The possible rewards.

He grew a tight smile. Then he gave me his answer, laying down terms and conditions with the aplomb of a master strategist. Spock would not work at all. And Kirk would have all the time he needed to care for him. The conditions of his lodging would be exactly as I had said, and anything he needed to help his friend regain his health would be available to him.

I agreed. Of course.

And he agreed, as well, still with that half-smile on his face which didn't touch his eyes. I found myself afraid of him, and it gave an added frisson to the excitement burning in me.

* * * * *

It was easy to arrange. I handled every detail without causing suspicion. Kirk's efficiency was well known, and I'd arranged to have my last houseman called back to the countryside for a trumped-up reason. There, I'd made sure the local Controller had certain information which would prevent him from ever returning. Likely, he would die there, but I didn't care.

Inside three days, the two of them were installed inside my house. Kirk had his own rooms, of course, both for work and for sleeping. His sleeping room was close to that of his friend. Much as I longed to, I could not arrange otherwise without going against our bargain.

Still, I doubted there would be any difficulty arranging our rendezvous. My wife and children lived separately, in their own apartments inside the huge edifice. The mansion is something I inherited, a massive edifice to the prestigious name of the Stefhan family. It is far larger than I need, but I have standards to maintain, and the house and the enormous expenditures it requires are proof of my wealth and position.

There were plenty of places inside for secret trysts. My ancestors, mindful of scandalmongers, had been courteous enough to install secret rooms and passages, and thus in one of these prepared love-nests, I met him for the first time.

I had never before felt as free, nor as fearful, as I did that night. The lights were low, and cast fantastic shadows among the bed hangings, all pale brocade and fine linen. Kirk removed his clothing without any sense of shame. I stared in fascination at that magnificent body, compact and lush, well-muscled. His broad chest gleamed in the lamplight. His manhood nestled in a bed of golden curls.

He was watching me, and when I met his gaze, he paraded himself before me, an ironic smile on his face which touched nothing in his soul. I could imagine no respectable man behaving as he did without suffering depths of hideous shame, and yet none was there. Nor was there the practiced artifice of the professional whore. He was whole and complete in himself, supremely confident--for what reasons, considering his status and Illegal background, I could not even begin to guess.

No, there was no shame in him. What glinted at me out of his changeable eyes was contempt. It was a potential knife to turn against myself, did I choose to take up that blade. I ignored him. Addicted already, dying of my greed, I cast off my clothes and fumbled for his flesh.

It was over almost before begun. I spurted at the barest touch of his body to mine. I had thought to take him, and the fantasy galvanized my flesh before reality fulfilled it. Groaning, I lay miserably sated on the bed. He lay down beside me and stretched out, looking unconcerned.

I thought to touch him, rouse him, but the expression in his eyes chilled me, and I kept my hands away.

Presently, after we had rested, I reached for him again. He stayed my hand with his own, and fear came back to me again. Commandingly, he rose and leaned over me. His hot breath, his touch woke my need again. His eyes told me that, all unknowingly, I had made him my master. Already my flesh was straining up, hot and powerful.

With his hands and mouth, he did to me such things as I had always dreamed but never thought possible. Drowning in a delirium of ecstasy, I passed every known pinnacle of delight and fell into a welcoming oblivion.

* * * * *

The nights after that were the heated center of my life. I burned toward them, feeling myself flame at the end of each day. I was always careful, however, to appear in public as I always was, to show every day the same cold face to the world. This was my secret pleasure, my hidden guilty delight, and though daily terror of discovery washed over me, it melted away at his skillful touch.

All was paradise. As long as I ignored the subtle contempt in his eyes.

I never tried to rouse him. I never tried to satisfy him. I never saw his flesh aroused. But I used him in every way I knew, and some he taught me. And, during each act, I played many a game with my mind, living many a fantasy, until one night I said the deadly words.

I love you, I whispered to his turned back.

He moved to face me, and smiled with heartless simplicity.

"You got what you paid for. Nothing more."

He took me in his mouth, just to prove what he could do, and my body betrayed me with response. But while the hot liquid gushed out of me, I felt the stab of chill ice in my heart.

* * * * *

It was a half-day holiday at work, and I came home promptly, thinking of him. Because of the holiday, my wife was out, visiting with her family on the next Hill. She'd taken the children, as well.

Kirk was in neither the account-room, nor his sleeping room. Busy days at work had kept too many thoughts of jealousy from my mind, but here and there they'd intruded: brief snatches of Kirk, alone with his friend, who, from Kirk's accounts, was improving.

I stood in the corridor outside Spock's sleeping room, consumed with the fires of jealousy and anger. Finally, I strode forward and flung the door open.

The two of them were in bed together, obviously nude beneath the blankets, cuddled together with warm affection. Both looked up, startled, when I entered.

After the first instant, Kirk gave me a sardonic smile. Spock raised one of his eyebrows in a gesture clearly calculated to infuriate me. The effect of him, with his unmannishly long black hair nearly to his shoulders--an effect he seemed to care precisely nothing about, nor did its length even hint at the effeminate--and his absolute lack of shame or fear in my presence, filled my mind with white-hot rage.

In a voice dripping with ice, I informed Kirk, "I want to see you now. Alone."

"I'd been under the impression today was a holiday," Kirk said. "Was I mistaken, Mr. Stefhan?"

"Holiday or no," I said, "you are my employee. Get up."

He did, unselfconscious in his nudity, though the sight burned my eyes like a brand.

I took him back to our hiding room, and took his body with all the force I was capable of. I hurt him; I know I did, but he never cried out, and when I was done, he rolled over. He no longer bothered to disguise the contempt in his eyes.

I caught them together more than once after that. Never again in any compromising act. But their love was its own proof and evidence. Spock, now fully recovered, would join Kirk sometimes in the accounting room and help him with his work. On days away from the Factories, I would sometimes come in and find them both there.

Not even touching, not even near, somehow they yet conveyed an impression of complete togetherness, of belonging, of a love so pure and true it set my soul into a deep, reverberating ache.

I began, then, to really wonder about them. Their strangeness. Their lack of fear, of even beginning to know their place in society, despite their splendid acting to the contrary. Most of all, the love they so obviously shared. How could anyone possibly see this type of love as right and true? Yes, by all their actions their very being, they did. Their presence made me feel as if I were some warped and cracked mirror, trying vainly to reflect some greater truth.

Jealousy assassinated my mind. The sight of them together, whole and uncrippled, with everything I can never have, kept me sleepless at night and haunted by day. No matter how many times I had Kirk I only had crumbs, what little he deigned to give me.

I'd thought to have everything. Instead, I had nothing, and whatever I grasped at slipped away from my hands.

It is more than I can bear.

I plotted Spock's murder in dozens of different ways. With him dead--no suspicion must be attached to me, of course--perhaps Kirk would turn to me as his own natural kind.

Perhaps. But I had never done murder, and did not know how to plot it. It was my own ineptitude, my fear of being clumsy and being caught, that prevented me more than anything.

So I decided on an alternate course. I would murder their love instead.

I sent Kirk out on an errand one day. His hazel eyes challenged me, questioning, for I'd never done this before.

I made no explanations. He had to go.

Then I summoned Spock to my home office.

Again I was struck by the strangeness of him, the pallor of his skin, the long black hair that brushed across his forehead in bangs down to the brows, that fell, unclasped, to his shoulders. On any other, it would have appeared unmannish, but somehow it added to the strength of his angular face and the uncompromising coldness in his eyes.

Why did Kirk want this freakish peasant, instead of me? The advantages I could--had!--given him; the things we could do in the future!

Spock's dark eyes watched me, provoking me. I was seated behind my vast desk; he was standing before it, like any penitent, yet somehow I felt he had power over me.

I felt a helpless rage surge in me, and I lost control, hissing out words in anger. I described to him what Kirk and I were to each other, what we did together, hoping to anger him with the rage of sexual fidelity defiled.

His eyes were expressionless and cold. Colder depths I have never seen. He answered, using clear concise words with surgical precision.

He knew. And he understood exactly what I hoped to accomplish with these words. He told me I could not possibly succeed.

He told me that, should I ever do any harm to Kirk, my life was forfeit.

He showed me his back. He walked out of the room.

When I went to Kirk that night, nothing was said. But his eyes showed clearly that he knew what had transpired earlier. Never with anyone else have I felt the same sense of abject worthlessness. Never before had my lust failed me with his flesh. But I could do nothing, and rather than reveal the presence of tears, I fled his bedside and did not return.


* * * * *

They vanished three days later. I did nothing for a day, then two. Then I called the authorities and reported theft.

To no avail. It has been a year since, and no one has reported seeing them. They must be dead, I am told. No one transported them out of town. In the middle of winter, they could not have gone far. They were buried in some drift somewhere, frozen.

But all the snow melted during the summer, and still they were not found.

I went back to visiting centertown, looking for Kirk's face there, his body there among the masked men. No one resembled him. No one knew him, and my questions were an impertinence, an unforgivable rudeness in an area where no questions were asked, ever.

I do not understand. I don't think I ever will. Sometimes, I think it all a dream now, that brief look at perfection, that glimpse into their reality where all such as I could be accepted as natural and good. A dream--something my mind created as solace for my damaged soul.

But my flesh remembers Kirk's touch.

And at night I dream of his hazel eyes.